


Ariel

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Chianti - Freeform, First Kiss, First Time, Italy, M/M, Poetry, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, TAB Universe, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 02:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10912932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Wounded soldier [and doctor] John Watson goes to Italy and meets a mad poet. Life is never the same.





	Ariel

**Author's Note:**

> This is, ridiculously, the longest 'postcard' in history. About which I say either 'sorry' or 'you're welcome', depending on how you feel about it.
> 
> This title was intimidating, because I had no idea what the book was. When I found out it was actually a biography of the poet Shelley, I was okay with that. But I have always seen Sherlock as more of a Byronic figure [mad, bad, and...you know the rest] so I ran with it. And kept running, because it kept growing. Hope you like the result, because I rather do. One thing: I am not a poet, so please be a little forgiving with the 'excerpts' included.
> 
> Only a couple more tales in this series.

Many a young man has donned the uniform of Her Majesty’s Service and cheerfully marched off in search of glory and honours. No doubt I was just the same when I signed on as a surgeon with the Northumberland Fusiliers; one need only to glance at the photograph I was persuaded to sit for just prior to the unit being posted out to the Sudan. Both the pride and the barely suppressed anticipation shine out blatantly from the image of the man I was. But I was much younger then. Two years younger, in fact. Most days now I felt even older than my three decades.

Unhappily, for all my lofty ambitions and patriotic fervour, in the end, my time at war brought me nothing but pain and misery, neither of which was much ameliorated by the shining medals bestowed upon me. Further, the bullet that smashed into my shoulder was only the beginning of my problems. Far worse were the fever and infection which ravished my body for weeks afterwards, very nearly ending my earthly existence. I shall be very honest and confess that on many days I wished only that such a fate had come to liberate me from my dire circumstances.

But whether it was due to some improbable divine intervention, my own much-remarked upon stubborn nature or, most likely of all, the yeoman efforts of my fellow physicians, I managed to survive.

However, even as I healed, it was obvious that I could no longer serve as I once had; consequently, my spirits were exceedingly low. Just when I was at my lowest ebb, fortune finally smiled upon me. An old acquaintance from Barts put me forward for the rather coveted position of physician to the British Embassy in Rome. Apparently, my limp and occasional tremor did not put them off me, because I soon received word that the posting was mine if I chose to take it up. Possibly those medals came in useful after all; Victoria Regina is said to have a softness for such things.

I accepted the offer with alacrity and sent my fervent gratitude to Stamford.

So, despite all the tribulations of my recent past, it seemed as if a new life now awaited me. I determined to make the most of whatever came my way.

*

My journey from the Sudan to Rome was long and not without its own hazards. En route, there was a brief flare-up of the damned fever and no diminution of the nightmares that had haunted my sleep since the occasion of my injury. But, in the end, I arrived in the Eternal City a full fortnight before my duties at the embassy were scheduled to commence. Of course, that period did not allow me time for a proper trip to London. Not that I had any urgent reason to visit the capital in any event. My parents were both dead and my sister might as well have been, for all the contact we maintained. The real problem between us was that we knew one another too well, including all of the secrets we both kept. That made any close relationship difficult.

As well, whether for better or worse, I had never found myself overly encumbered by friends. None, at least, who would welcome a visit from me.

Still, since I had already played tourist in Rome during my youth, it seemed a shame to simply lurk about the city until it was time to take up my new position.

With no real plan in mind, I visited the local office of the Thomas Cook Agency and in two ticks they had me booked for a brief holiday at a most respectable hotel on the shore of a lovely [according to the enthusiastic young man behind the desk] lake. I would leave Rome the next day.

*

It felt to me something of a lark to travel without the burden of duty looming at the destination. Consequently, I was able to simply relax and enjoy the train journey. As promised, a dog cart met me at the station and delivered me in short order to the hotel, which was as charming as had been promised by the agent at Thomas Cook. The setting, a large lake surrounded by trees and gardens, appealed immediately.

In very short order and broken but acceptable English, the overly-gregarious host had registered my particulars and informed me that tea would shortly be served in the back garden. Apparently, his clientele was predominantly British, which after such a long time spent living amongst foreigners, I found a rather appealing prospect.

After unpacking and neatly organising my belongings, [the habits of a military life do linger] I changed from my travel clothing into some linen trousers and a new navy blue blazer. A straw boater completed my transformation into the personification of the respectable Englishman on holiday. Finally, picking up my walking stick, I felt ready to join the society which would be mine for the next ten days.

A number of brightly painted tables were set around the back garden and most of the chairs were already occupied by other guests being served tea. I shuffled about rather awkwardly, trying to decide where to sit. My nerves were clearly reflected in my limp.

Finally, a not unattractive woman of a certain age took pity and waved me over to her table. She was sitting with two other women of a similar age and style, as well as a thin, moustachioed gentleman, although perhaps I use the term too loosely. There was something oily about him that put me off. But never-the-less I took a chair. Introductions were made, tea was poured and the chatter resumed.

It was only a very short time before I remembered that this sort of society had always bored me beyond tolerating. That realisation did not come as any great surprise, of course, because I was a man who had gone to war, at least in part, in order not to be bored.

The old habit of making myself agreeable in company returned easily. I nodded occasionally and made pleasant sounds and as usual none of the others seemed to realise that I was paying no attention at all to their conversation. Instead, I let my gaze wander across the garden and down to the shore of the lake. Which was when I saw that several persons were gathered there, lounging together on a large quilt, sharing what looked to me like a large bottle of champagne. The faint echo of their laughter reached my ears. They seemed to be a rather jollier group than the one I was with, although judging by the scandalously revealing dress of the three females, also less respectable.

“I see that some of the guests prefer to spend their afternoon indulging in beverages more intoxicating than this delightful Assam,” I commented, meaning nothing really. Idle chatter has never been my forte.

Mrs Callister [the woman who had invited me to sit at the table and who had already managed to convey the information that she was a widow in ‘comfortable’ circumstances] made a moue of distaste. “Oh, they are not guests at the hotel itself,” she said. “The wrong sort altogether. They are inhabiting a cottage on the grounds. Three unmarried women and two men, if you can believe it.” She gave a most ladylike shudder. “One can only imagine the goings on.”

I had the uncharitable thought that Mrs Callister no doubt spent a great of time imagining such things. But I said nothing of my thoughts, of course. Instead, I looked out towards the lake again. There was only one man sitting with the women at the moment, a sturdy ginger fellow with a smile that could be seen even at this distance. He wore a flowing white shirt of the sort that might be worn by an Italian peasant. One of the pretty girls had moved to sit in his lap.

Each of the women at the table was now watching the scene avidly. The other man there, whose name was Moriarty, seemed instead to be watching me. “The most notorious of the group has not appeared as of yet,” he said in a soft voice that was somehow grating on my nerves.

Mrs Callister nodded in eager agreement. “That dreadful poet. You must have heard of him, Dr Watson. Sherlock Holmes.”

While I paid very little attention to poetry or literature at all, beyond my fondness for rollicking sea tales, I had indeed heard of Mr Sherlock Holmes. Who had not? His name appeared frequently in the less respectable newspapers, where his scandalous behaviour served to titillate the public mind. [Yes, I admit to occasionally perusing the pages of such publications in search of amusement.] Those tales of his disreputable behaviour seemed at odds with the truth that his poetry was very highly regarded by those who cared about such things. It seemed a contradiction that I thought was rather curious. As unlikely as it was, I must have read at least one of his verses at some point because a few lines came to mind.

_Danger lives in the night_  
And I seek it out,  
A dark angel  
In search of the light… 

It occurred to me, for some reason, that I was glad to have remembered those lines. They were intriguing and made me wonder about the man who had written them.

One of the other women at the table, whose name I had already forgotten, sighed. “Of course, while they are not without fault, I do still feel some pity for those lovely young women. Who knows what they suffer at the hands of someone like Holmes?”

Moriarty gave a sneer that made me like him even less. “Oh,” he said, “I expect those girls are safe from Holmes. At least if the rumours about his…tastes are true; however, young Trevor there might want to take care.”

I set my cup down with an unnecessarily loud clink. “This conversation is not really suitable for the tea table, is it?”

There was an awkward pause, although the awkwardness was primarily on the part of myself and the three ladies. Mr Moriarty still seemed merely amused. I had met his sort before and would have wagered on him having a bad end. Save, of course, for the fact, that I no longer wagered on anything at all. 

After a few moments, Mrs Callister began chatting about an outing most of the guests were undertaking the next day. Apparently, they were all keen to spend two hours rattling along in some Italian version of an omnibus to go stare at a pile of ancient Roman ruins. She urged me to come along, but I made no commitment.

Before I could be pressed further on the matter, it was time for us to disperse to our own lives, at least until dinner. Some of the guests were obviously keen on further socialising, as a whist game was proposed for the parlour. As for myself, I headed directly to my room and if the damned limp was a bit worse than it had been, I ignored the fact. 

Weary from the day, I removed my jacket and cravat, as well as my shoes and stockings, before stretching out on the comfortable bed, intending to simply rest a bit before dressing for dinner.

In the event, however, I slept so deeply and for so long, mercifully without the dreams, that I missed dinner entirely. It was just after midnight, in fact, by the time I awoke, feeling restless. Unsettled, in a not-unfamiliar way

I used the water closet, which also contained a small basin, so I splashed water on my face.

The bedroom felt too warm and humid. Because of the lateness of the hour, and doubting that anyone else would be stirring, I felt comfortable venturing out in simply my trousers and sleep-wrinkled shirt. Not even donning my shoes, I made a futile attempt to smooth my porcupine spike hair and took my walking stick in hand.

As anticipated, the hotel was dimly lit and silent as I made my downstairs and through the lobby. The door to the back garden was on the latch, but not further locked, so I slipped out easily. A brilliant full moon provided ample illumination as I walked through the garden and from there down to the lake.

A large boulder provided a perfect seat. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my pipe and tobacco pouch. The routine of preparing the pipe had always proved calming to me. At last, I took out the engraved silver case in which I stored my Bryant and May matches. No sooner had I struck one against the boulder to ignite it than someone spoke from behind me.

“Oh, thank the gods,” was what the deep voice said. “I am perishing for a cigarette but found myself without any means to produce fire. Now I understand how the cavemen felt.”

I was so startled that the pipe almost fell from my hand. Then I turned around to confront the intruder.

Somehow, I knew immediately that the man who stood there had to be the infamous Sherlock Holmes. He wore tailored black trousers that barely clung to a pair of narrow hips and a deep violet waistcoat, but no shirt, so his pale flesh gleamed in the silvery light. Like myself, he was barefooted. His hair was a riot of dark curls and his eyes were as platinum as the moonlight.

I was struck dumb for a moment.

He waved a cigarette in front of me impatiently.

Belatedly, I held my match case out to him and when he took it our fingers brushed together. Just lightly, but I thought that it had been deliberate on his part.

He slowly took out a match and used the striking surface on the side of the case to ignite it. I suppose that had Mrs Callister been present she would have seen something satanic in the way the flame danced on his sculptured face. I, on the other hand, found the sight as engaging as any I had ever seen.

He flicked the burnt match towards the water and then tilted his head back to take a long pull on the cigarette. I stopped thinking about his face and commenced to reflect upon that long neck.

One of us should say something. “Mr Holmes, I assume?” was the best I could come up with.

He lowered his head and stared at me. “No. Mr Holmes is my father. Or my odious brother.”

“Sherlock, then.” I stood up and held out a hand. “John Watson.”

It took a moment, during which he seemed to be dissecting me with his gaze, but he finally took my hand, shaking it. “Since I do not know your former rank, is it Dr Watson?”

I blinked at him. Had someone from the hotel been spreading tales? That seemed unlikely, but otherwise how would this man know anything about me?

He gave me a smirk pretending to be a smile. “Your very posture says military and I can tell you are a doctor by your left thumb.” It was only then that he released my hand.

Well, that was all foolishness, of course, but I was so charmed by his blatant cheekiness that I only shrugged. “If you are to be Sherlock, then John is fine,” was all I said.

I resumed my perch on the boulder and after a moment, Sherlock sat there as well. There was a not uneasy moment of silence between us, as we both watched the moon-dappled lake.

“Are you aware, John, that on average ten people a year in England die from the effects of a bee sting?”

I glanced at him, appreciating his unique profile. “I was not aware of that. Why are you?”

He shrugged. “I take an interest.”

“In bees? Or death?”

He shifted a bit so that he was facing me. “In both, actually.”

I smiled faintly at him. “The poetic mind is a mystery to me, Sherlock.”

“I have a scientific mind,” he said in a tone of chastisement.

“And yet you are a poet,” I pointed out.

“I am a man of many parts, John.” He took out and lighted another cigarette. “Is Harry your brother?” he asked, still turning the match case over in his hand. “Or a former lover?”

My mouth went dry. It was a moment before I could speak. “My sister,” I said. “Harriet is her name. As a child, she favoured Harry.” I took the silver case from him. “I suppose she was attempting an act of sentiment. We don’t get on.”

“I did mention my odious brother. Antagonistic sibling relationships are common, apparently.” Sherlock smiled at me. I had the absolutely absurd thought that I had never really been smiled at before. “More common, no doubt, than former lovers.”

I probably should have feigned anger or scorn over the implication that a former lover of mine would have been male, but I did not. Perhaps there is something to the myth of moon madness. “More common in my life, certainly,” was what I did say.

“You have no past lovers?” 

“I have past sexual partners. None that I would really classify as a lover.”

There was no reason that we should be having this ridiculous and no doubt entirely inappropriate conversation. I looked into Sherlock’s face. “ _A dark angel in search of light_ ,” I whispered, without an intent to do so.

Sherlock moved suddenly and then his lips were pressed against mine.

As quickly as the kiss began, it ended and then Sherlock Holmes was gone, disappearing into the darkness.

I grabbed my walking stick and returned to the hotel.

*

The next morning, I was all alone in the dining room, lingering over my tea and reading a three-day old copy of the London Times. Most of the other guests had departed already for their day amongst the ruins and the others had scattered to unknown pursuits. Although my demeanour was as usual, my mind was rather feverishly whirling.

And all my thoughts circled back to the night before and the kiss, of course.

Just as I began to fold the newspaper and wonder what I should do for a day that suddenly seemed to stretch out endlessly before me, Sherlock Holmes walked into the dining room. Although ‘walked in’ seemed to understate the reality. He strode in like a conquering hero. A Prometheus. Before I could speak [with no idea at all of what I might say] the owner of the hotel also entered the room. I could not anticipate his reaction to having Sherlock there.

Surprisingly, his arms spread wide and the man began to grin. “Sherlock! My friend! I wondered when I might finally see you here.” He gave Sherlock a hug typical of the Italian nature.

Sherlock only smiled a bit. “Hello, Angelo,” he said.

The man turned and looked at me. “Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he announced grandly. “The maker of beautiful words. Because of him, I have the perfect wife.”

“Could I have some tea, please?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course, of course!” Angelo bustled towards the kitchen.

Sherlock came over and, without an invitation, took the second chair at my table.

This morning he was wearing a well-fitting black suit and a crisp white collared shirt. Just to prove that he belonged to a world of his own, where the rules adhered to by ordinary mortals did not apply, he had added neither tie nor cravat. He had also eschewed a hat and the curls were still untamed. I could see the pale flesh of his neck peeking through. “Good morning, Sherlock Holmes,” I said. I think it was not until that moment I fully realised and accepted that the events of last night had actually happened and were not simply part of my dream life.

He was staring at me and frowning slightly, which was not really the expression one liked to see on someone’s the morning after a shared first kiss. “You should shave the moustache,” he said finally. “It ages you.”

What was I meant to say to that?

Luckily, Angelo saved me again, returning with a fresh pot of tea in addition to a tray of tiny pastries. “Ah, I see you have made a new friend, already!”

He poured Sherlock some tea and then refreshed my cup as well. With a grin that seemed to hint at all kind of things I preferred not to contemplate at the moment, he left us alone.

Sherlock was nibbling at a cinnamon-scented pastry.

“Are you also a matchmaker, then?” I said.

He looked briefly startled, then shook his head. “Angelo wanted to marry the shoemaker’s daughter, but always became ridiculously tongue-tied in her presence. I simply helped him to write a letter and a few months later, they were wed.”

“Oh, a true romantic.”

Sherlock chose to ignore that. Instead, he nodded towards the Times. “I assume the world is still bumbling towards disaster.”

I laughed softly. “I mostly just checked the cricket scores. This is a holiday, after all.”

He only hummed in response. We sat in silence for a few minutes as Sherlock made his way through the pastry tray. “Well,” he said finally, when both the tray and the teapot were empty, “I must be going.”

“Off to pen some new rhymes, I imagine.”

“Sadly, no. Merely an errand for my odious brother.”

I hoped he might say more, but after bidding Angelo a brief farewell, Sherlock gave me a smile, whirled around rather like a dancer on stage and left. I sat there, wondering again what to do next, reflecting that my life had taken a most peculiar turn of late.

But I had no more time to think, because suddenly the door opened again and Sherlock was standing there. He just looked at me thoughtfully. “You were a soldier,” he said.

“I was. And a doctor.”

“A man who loves an adventure.”

I shrugged.

“You should accompany me.”

“On your errand?”

A half smile flickered across his face. “Could be dangerous.”

“Just what kind of errands does your odious brother send you off on?” Even as I asked the question, my body, seemingly of its own accord, was rising from the chair and I was reaching for my stick. I did doubt that there was any real danger ahead, but something occurred to me. “Wait just a moment, Sherlock,” I said before leaving the dining room.

When I walked back downstairs two minutes later, he was hovering impatiently just outside. “At last!” he ejaculated, as if I had been absent for an hour.

Very soon, we were sitting together in a well-maintained trap, being pulled by a sturdy roan which had bright ribbons tied to its mane. We moved along at a good clip, Sherlock confident in his handling of the pony. “So,” I said. “This errand? It might be a good idea if I had some idea what we’re meant to be doing.”

Sherlock glanced at me; we were sitting close together in the small carriage and for a moment our gazes held. Then he looked away and adjusted his grip on the reins. “I promised you an adventure. And danger.”

“To neither of which would I necessarily be averse.”

Sherlock smiled.

“I will say, however, that the poetic life is not quite what I had imagined it to be,” I commented.

“What did you imagine?”

“Oh, an untidy garret, I suppose. A wild-haired young aesthete anguishing over his words and suffering greatly for love.” I pretended to study him. “You have the hair, of course. And your aesthetics are ideal.” I literally [and painfully] bit my tongue after those words escaped.

“Thank you,” he said in a slightly mocking tone. “I should say that while my rooms in London do not contain a garret, there are those who would call the place untidy.”

“Let me hazard a guess. Your odious brother is one of those.”

“I could tidy.” Sherlock was watching the road ahead. “If you are not careful, John Watson, I could easily become very fond of you,” he said apropos of nothing, really.

“You make it sound as if that were a threat.”

“It has been said.” We took a right turn and continued down an otherwise empty road. “My brother…”

“The odious one?” I interjected.

“Indeed. In his idle hours, when he is not engaged in merely annoying me, he runs the British government. From very far behind the scenes, of course. When his day to day routine palls, he likes to send me on little errands.”

I began to see the truth of it. “And because you are a mad poet, you can act when others could not.”

There was something almost like admiration in the glance he sent me. “I knew you were clever, John.” Well, perhaps the admiration was not so much for me as for his own ability to read people.

“Today I am commissioned to retrieve a parcel containing supposedly ‘sensitive’ information regarding politics in Germany. Or Russia. I lost interest in what he was saying very quickly.”

My gaze no doubt resembled that of a love-struck maid, but luckily, he seemed oblivious. “So, you are a poet and a spy. And a man with a scientific mind. I only wonder how all of that leaves any time at all for dissolution and the corrupting of innocents. Which, according to what people say, seem to be your primary occupations.”

“People say a great deal,” he replied scathingly. “I ignore all of it. However, I am not a spy. Actually, I consider myself something of a detective. I am consulted by the authorities on occasion, as well as members of the public.”

Well, there was no doubt that all of what he’d said was very interesting, but there was still one other topic that I wanted very much to raise. The correct words, however, were difficult to find. “Your friends,” I began delicately.

“My what?” For some reason, he sounded genuinely bewildered by what I had said.

“Mr Trevor and the young ladies sharing your cottage.”

He eyed me, one brow arched. “John Watson, are you jealous?”

I kept my gaze firmly directed at the scenery we were passing. “Do not be absurd. I am merely curious to uncover the truth behind the myth of a notorious poet.”

He chuckled, which was a delightfully dark and somehow sinful sound. “I would not mind just a bit of jealousy, you know.”

The man was shameless. I suppose the artistic temperament finds such things much easier to talk about. I am a simple doctor [and soldier] who has spent the whole of his adult life not talking about such things. Even on those exceedingly rare occasions when such words might have followed quite naturally. 

When I did not speak, Sherlock sighed. “Trevor is an acquaintance from university, where we shared a powerful disdain for most of the other fellows there. We also discovered a common interest in the opium pipe.” There was a pause and then he glanced at me again, this time with a frown. “Should I not have said that?”

“As long as it is the truth, you may say anything to me,” I said quietly, despite feeling some dismay.

After a moment, he only shrugged. “Trevor enjoys visiting Italy. The females are his friends, not mine. It is all very tiresome, but their presence is sometimes useful.”

As if a fog had cleared in front of me, I suddenly understood so much. “It is all a performance, isn’t it? The mad and bad poet is simply a character you play. A mask you put on for the world.”

He shrugged. “It amuses me.”

“But when it comes to the poetry itself, that you take very seriously, I think.”

“Of course, I do.”

A moment later, Sherlock turned the trap off the road and onto a rougher path that took us into a stand of trees. He drew the pony to a stop. “No,” he said, apparently anticipating my question. “The meeting is not taking place here. But I prefer that we go the rest of the way on foot.”

He loosely tied the pony to one of the trees and retrieved a small carpetbag from behind the seat.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Five thousand pounds,” he said almost absently.

“Bloody hell!”

“You didn’t expect that he was going to just hand me the stolen papers because of my pretty face, did you?” Sherlock said with a smirk.

I forebore answering that.

We set off across a grassy field, moving towards another stand of trees and beyond that what I finally realised was a ramshackle farmhouse. My stick was an annoyance, but I managed to keep up with Sherlock’s pace. We stopped at the edge of the grove and stared at the house. It seemed, to my eyes, at least, to be deserted. 

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned down to speak softly right into my ear. “ _Does one soul recognise another and know it as the missing piece? Is that a chemistry of sorts? Or is it something foreign, something which cannot be explained, no matter the eloquence of my language?_ ” 

Before I could speak, Sherlock stepped back. Apparently, the time for poetry was over. “I am going into the house,” he said briskly. “You stay here, hidden, and await further developments.”

“Not sure that qualifies as a plan,” I muttered.

“The miscreant should be arriving in ten minutes. He will join me inside. If all goes well, I should emerge in approximately fifteen minutes after that.”

“And if all does not go well?”

His grin was arrogant and irresistible in equal measure. “That is why I brought a soldier with me. And a doctor.” Sherlock turned and started towards the house.

I felt obligated to try once more. “I don’t think---”

The infuriating man only gave a careless wave over his shoulder as he kept walking. “Don’t worry, John, I can think for both of us.”

I resisted the temptation to go after him and apply my fist to his face. Not the cheekbones, though. Or the nose.

Instead, with a sigh, I propped my stick against a tree and settled onto a fallen log, sitting so that I had a perfect view of the old farmhouse. I took the watch from the pocket of my waistcoat and glanced at the time. Then I proceeded to wait.

Ten minutes, he had said. Those minutes passed more slowly than should have been possible. As did the next ten, with no sign of any damned miscreant. Or anyone else. As the wait headed towards the thirty-minute mark, something occurred to me. We had hidden the horse and trap so that our arrival would go unnoticed; what if someone else had done the same? Was it possible that someone had already been inside when Sherlock arrived and waltzed in, all insouciance and absurd hair?

That idea having occurred, it would not leave my mind. I fretted for only two more minutes before deciding that action had to be taken. No sooner had I reached that decision than the too-familiar sound of a gunshot reached my ears. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

I set off in a run towards the house, already reaching into my pocket where I had concealed my pistol earlier. I did not allow the thought of what I might find to enter my mind. Much.

I reached the side of the house and slowed, easing my way to a window.

The first thing I saw through the grimy glass was Sherlock. Not lying on the dirt floor in a pool of blood, as I had feared but tied to a chair. There was a little blood trickling from his temple, but otherwise he looked unharmed.

A shattered mirror on one wall seemed the likely target of the gunshot I had heard. Meant as a warning, no doubt.

There was one other person in the room, a rather hulking fellow in a brown suit that had seen better days. He did not look like the sort able to infiltrate a government office and steal secret papers; instead, he seemed more likely to wait in a dark alley and rob a passer-by. The gun that had no doubt made the sound I’d heard was in his left hand.

I could barely make out their words.

“…Eddie is an idiot,” the man said. “For all his fancy suits and big talk about his job at Whitehall. He left the papers right in plain sight on the table. What did he expect?”

I could see that Sherlock was trying to loosen the rope that held his arms behind the chair, but the knot seemed secure. “Probably Eddie was thinking that he could trust his wife’s brother not to be a thief. So, I guess you are right to say that he is an idiot.” His fingers paused briefly to rest. “Why bring the papers to Italy?”

On the small table between them lay the carpetbag with the money as well as a thick parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. 

“I got a connection here.”

Already, I could recognise the tilt of Sherlock’s head as he deduced the other man. “Oh, you’re a smuggler.”

The man grunted.

“But, clearly, you do not yourself possess the intelligence to run a smuggling operation on your own. Someone else is pulling the strings.” Sherlock smiled. “I do not suppose you would like to be a sport and tell me the name of your employer.”

The other man was apparently trying to decide if he had been insulted. But he only shook his head. “No names. The boss don’t like people who talk.” 

Sherlock shrugged, as if he did not care one way or another, but then he sighed visibly. “Well, honestly, this has been all rather disappointing. I had been expecting an international agent skilled in espionage. A battle of wits. Instead, I get you. A petty thief who cannot even negotiate a simple exchange of items. Johnson, this has been a severe let-down.”

“I’m smart enough to get the government to pay me five thousand quid and then collect even more from the Russians.”

“Do you really expect to get away with this?”

Johnson grinned. “Well, you’ll never know, will you?”

That did not sound promising. I shifted the pistol in my hand; while I had no desire to kill or maim another man, I would not let him harm Sherlock Holmes. After all, the world of poetry would be bereft.

Johnson set his weapon down on the table so that he could examine the contents of the carpetbag. He seemed pleased with what he found.

What happened next occurred so quickly that the details would forever be a bit muddled in my mind.

Without either his captor or myself noticing, Sherlock had finally freed himself from the rope binding him to the chair. I realised that he was free only when his legs braced themselves in preparation for throwing himself towards Johnson. Unfortunately, that man noticed at the same time what Sherlock was doing and he grabbed the pistol immediately. Sherlock was just a bit off-balance when he landed, which gave Johnson a moment in which to press the gun to Sherlock’s head.

I acted on pure instinct, taking aim, and then firing almost as one action. The glass of the window shattered and Johnson fell, a bright flower blossoming on his chest.

It was silent for a long moment.

Sherlock had turned to look at me through the remains of the window. I lowered my pistol, pocketing it again. That done, I walked to the door and entered the house.

“A skilled shot,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Luck, more like.”

We both looked down at the dead man on the ground.

“It is only too bad he died before giving me the name of his superior,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“I know little of the Italian justice system,” I said then. “Will I hang, do you think?” I wondered what it meant that if my action had saved Sherlock’s life, I considered it a good exchange.

Sherlock gave a soft snort. “You will never even be charged. A wire to my odious brother will take care of everything.”

I frowned. “I did kill a man.”

“Not a good man. A criminal and traitor, a man who was about to murder the younger brother of the British government. All will be well, I promise. Who knows? There might even be another medal in it for you.”

I did not bother to wonder how he knew about the medals that had been awarded to me previously.

Sherlock picked up the carpet bag and the parcel. “Shall we be on our way?”

“Does your head wound need attention?”

He dismissed my question with a gesture and stalked out of the house.

I took one more look at the body on the ground and then I followed Sherlock Holmes back to the trap and the patiently waiting pony.

*

Were this a narrative intended for the popular press, one might next expect some scene of great drama following up on the recent events. Such, however, was not the case. 

We returned to the hotel and there was very little conversation during the journey. Sherlock held the reins in one hand while the other rested on my knee. It seemed an intimacy. I did not object.

Once we had reached the hotel, Sherlock did not disembark. “I must return the trap to the stable,” he said. “And then send the wire to Mycroft.”

I assumed that Mycroft was the name of his odious brother. Who was now apparently going to save me from disaster. “And what shall I do in the meanwhile?” I asked. Part of the reason for the question was simply to delay his departure.

“Nothing,” was his reply. “Go have some tea. Get Angelo to make you some sandwiches for a late luncheon. And do not fret yourself. I promise that all will be well.” His eyes met mine, the grey now more steel than the platinum of the moonlight. “I will not let anything happen to you.”

I touched his hand fleetingly and finally stepped down from the trap

Because it felt like the very least I could do in the situation, I followed Sherlock’s orders. Angelo set me up in the garden with a pot of fresh tea and a plate of gammon and cheese sandwiches. And, at my request, a snifter of brandy. 

There was much to dwell upon.

I, John Hamish Watson, have always been an ordinary man. A simple doctor and ex-soldier. Not the kind of man who had moonlight meetings and kisses with mysterious strangers. And most certainly not a man who went on dangerous adventures before tea time.

I was quite aware of the pistol still in my pocket. Should I have felt worse than I did for killing a man? Those who died under my hands in the medical tents of the Sudan still haunted my nightmares, but I suspected that this death would not keep me awake at all. And if there were indeed a final judgement day [of which I am sceptical] I was confident that I could acquit myself well. At least for this day.

Just as I finished my impromptu meal, other guests started to appear, back from their sightseeing. Mrs Callister and her cohorts were heading in my direction, so I stood, ready to flee. Automatically, I reached for my stick. Not until that moment did I realise that, in my desperation to find Sherlock after the sound of the gunshot, the damned thing had been forgotten in that stand of trees.

I excused myself with at least a degree of civility and went to my room. After returning my pistol to its place in the wardrobe, I dropped into the lone armchair. Sleep overtook me; the damned fever and infection still hampered me after such a day.

My dreams, for a change, were all of silver eyes and mussed curls and restless hands.

*

I could hear the low buzz of chatter even before I reached the dining room the next morning. Something had obviously excited the other guests over breakfast. As soon as I entered the room the reason for their excitement was clear. Sherlock Holmes was sitting at a table in the back of the room, being served tea and toast by Angelo.

This morning, the poet had decided to emulate respectability, dressing in a suit with a proper waistcoat and even a tie. The curls had been mostly tamed with too much lightly-scented oil. My first thought was that my fingers very much needed to muss that hair. [I once was a proper soldier in Her Majesty’s forces; somehow now I was becoming a creature with little control over my emotions. I could only hope that the heat I felt rush to my face did not show.] 

The attention of the room now turned to me and there was more soft murmuring. Ignoring that, I walked straight back to the table, greeted Angelo cheerfully and sat down. Angelo took my order for two soft-boiled eggs, three rashers, and toast. He poured my tea before disappearing into the kitchen.

I was still aware of the many eyes on me, but the only gaze that mattered was Sherlock’s. He seemed tempted to smile, but only allowed himself a slight twitch of his lips. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I was right.”

“Right about what?” I asked innocently, adding milk and one lump to my tea.

“The moustache did age you. Without it, you look a decade younger.”

“I do not remember you mentioning it,” I lied.

“And yet you shaved,” he pointed out.

I shrugged. “It was an impulse.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock glanced around the room. “I do fear for your reputation amongst your fellow guests, however, dining as you are with a man of such dubious morals.”

Our conversation was halted by the young woman serving my breakfast. Although Sherlock had insisted that all he wanted was toast, he promptly snatched a rasher from my plate. “Speaking of my reputation,” I said, “am I bound for an Italian prison soon?”

Sherlock was carefully nibbling at the bacon. “Nonsense. I told you that all would be well. My odious, albeit useful, brother has handled everything, just as I assured you he would.”

I felt the tension ease from my shoulders and suddenly the eggs tasted much better.

Slowly the dining room emptied until at last only Sherlock and I remained. Angelo brought us fresh tea and let us be. “There are several things I need to tell you,” Sherlock said quietly.

For a moment, I was bemused by the thought that I had only known this man for less than two days but that he already seemed somehow essential. That realisation frightened me more than any battlefield ever had. I took a fortifying swallow of tea. “All right.”

“Firstly, I must leave soon for a meeting with one of Mycroft’s minions, just to clear up all the details of what happened. There is no need for you to be bothered.”

A part of me still wondered if it should be so easy for someone who had killed a man to escape punishment or, at the very least, censure, but I needed to accept the help on offer and believe that what I had done was in the cause of good. Not unlike the actions of a soldier. “Thank you, Sherlock,” I said.

He ignored that. “Secondly, Trevor, sadly, has been recalled to London on a family matter. His friends have gone with him.” Sherlock did not sound in the least saddened by this development. 

I only nodded, not sure what response he was expecting from me.

He leaned over the table and spoke softly, although we were still alone in the room. “Join me at the cottage for dinner this evening. Please?” he added unexpectedly, tentatively, as if the very word were unfamiliar in his mouth.

“And will you be preparing the meal?” I teased.

“Of course not. Angelo is more than delighted to provide it.”

“In that case, I would be delighted.”

He relaxed a bit.

For a long moment, we just sat there, looking at one another. I was desperately glad that there was no one else in the room, because there was such heat in our mutual gaze that it seemed likely a bailiff [or the Italian equivalent] would have been summoned immediately.

It occurred to me that whatever this thing was between Sherlock Holmes and myself might well lead to prison, disgrace, or madness. If that were indeed the bargain fate was making with me, I feared that I was all too amenable.

*

Like a maiden preparing to meet with a suitor, I dressed most carefully for my dinner engagement. I shaved yet again and smoothed my hair. My best summer suit would not stand out next to whatever Sherlock would be wearing, no doubt, but I was fond of the embroidered waistcoat I had purchased on a whim in Rome. Amusingly, in light of Sherlock’s words the night we met, it was a cheerful sort of garment, embellished with tiny yellow and black bees.

I managed to avoid seeing any of the other guests while exiting the hotel, although I am sure my absence at dinner would evoke comment.

Rather than go through the back garden, I took the road to the cottage and in only two minutes was knocking at the door. Sherlock answered so speedily that I could only think that he had been awaiting my arrival.

The man who stood in front of me was like some mythical figure or a being from the land of faery.

Rest assured that I am aware of how utterly ridiculous my words sound; at least, I am aware now, looking back. But in that moment, standing there, those foolish words seemed entirely apt.

Sherlock was attired in a linen shirt of pale ivory and loose-fitting trousers of the same fabric, but in a colour that resembled chocolate. His feet were bare and, somehow, I knew instinctively that the curls had been carefully and deliberately tousled. How did such a person even exist in the world I knew?

“Come in, John,” he said with a faint smile, as if he were aware of every foolish thought in my head.

“When we are in public,” I said, “You must call me Watson.”

“Of course,” he murmured, still clearly amused. Then his eyes swept over me. “Oh, I do like your waistcoat.”

I could feel the damned flush that had afflicted me since youth spread over my cheeks. “Coincidentally, I purchased it in Rome,” I explained.

“Is the universe really so lazy?”

Having no idea what he actually meant by that, I said nothing and merely followed him into a very pleasant parlour. A table had been set up in front of the French doors that opened out to a pleasing aspect over the lake.

“Our dinner will be along in thirty minutes. Time enough for a drink. I have whiskey, but perhaps since we are in Italy we might indulge in some Chianti?”

“Fine,” I said.

He poured the wine and we sat at the table. A refreshing breeze wafted across us and Sherlock smiled at me. It felt as if all that had come before was as nothing and that this was the first night of my life.

There is no need to recount our conversation, because it was very like that of any two persons manoeuvring on the edge of something new, something important. We shared a bit too much wine and indulged in a bit too much of Angelo’s delicious pasta in a rich tomato sauce.

And the evening ended just as we had both known it would.

*

A pale and silvery moonlight drifted through the open window of the bedroom, illuminating everything it touched with just a murmur of magic. Or perhaps that was merely my own view.

We were abed, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together.

Still drinking the wine, albeit from a single shared glass now, we had slowly undressed one another; either the moonlight or the wine or possibly both had turned that commonplace activity in to something that seemed almost sanctified. He held the ridiculous waistcoat for a moment, his fingers smoothing the embroidery. “I plan on keeping bees one day,” he said. “Would you mind?” It seemed a very serious query.

“Not if I may keep a bulldog,” I replied.

He nodded and a deal had been struck.

At last, we stood in the centre of the room, naked as new-borne babes, which seemed an apt comparison given the new life that was beginning. His gaze landed on the still-raw flesh of my recent wound. “You are a warrior,” he said in a soft voice, as a tender smile touched his lips. “I am taking a warrior to my bed.”

“A broken warrior,” I pointed out.

“Shush. We are all broken one way or another. Most much less honourably.”

We moved as one to the bed and reclined there, side by side. Not wanting to seem a passive actor, I ran both hands over the pale marble that was his chest, foolishly surprised at how warm the flesh actually was; he was, after all, a man, not a statue by Michelangelo.

Sherlock bent his head so that his lips were just touching my ear. _“Starlight created you, I thought, on the occasion of our meeting.”_

It took me a moment to realise that he was reciting poetry [his own, of course] to me. At the same time, his hands were moving restlessly over my body, curious and tender in turn. _“If I indeed possess a soul, let it worship yours, as my flesh venerates your body.”_

Now I let my hands twist languidly in those curls that they had craved to touch forever.

He kissed me and I kissed him and we kissed one another.

His mouth moved just a breath’s space away from mine. _”My lover’s lips are redolent of wine, but such a vintage as never graced the crystal glass. It is the wine of love and I am drunk with it.”_

Our bodies slid together almost like dancers hearing the music begin and our pricks were twin magnets, each seeking true north in the other. I may have gasped and Sherlock definitely moaned.

We began to move slowly, undulating together as our pricks responded with unseemly eagerness. But Sherlock seemed determined to keep talking, to keep whispering pretty words into my damp and fervent skin. _“All my life I stalked the world, searching for what I knew not, until I caught your scent in the air, and inhaled the heat of your passion.”_

I could no longer keep silent, although my anguished whispers were very far from poetry. I uttered pleas without specifying what I wanted. I murmured foolish endearments with increasing desperation. Finally, all I could say was “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.”

Suddenly our two pricks were gathered in one large hand, held together in a fevered sort of embrace. _“Your heart belongs to mine, bound together, and as one we shall face the night and defeat the darkness.”_ Sherlock’s voice was raspy now, edged with the same desperation I was feeling. _“Alone no more, lonely no more, we are Love and we are one.”_

He finished his recitation with a huff of hot breath and then we each came to completion in a single scalding burst. I called out to a god that would no doubt condemn me and Sherlock shouted my name in much the same tone. Then he collapsed against me and in a wave of tenderness unfamiliar to me, I held him pressed so closely to my chest that our hearts seemed to beat in tandem.

*

Dawn found us awake, still twined together, not in passion now, but in affection. I stroked his hair again and his hand sketched vague patterns on my body. Our conversation was soft and meaningless and did not touch at all on the difficulties that would await us once we left this mussed bed that still reeked of our passion.

Finally, Sherlock gave a small laugh. “Stop fretting,” he said. “I will be able to sneak you into the hotel so that no one will know you dallied the night away in the arms of the mad poet.”

I sighed. “And that is only the first subterfuge in what will be a life filled with them.”

He seemed, almost, to withdraw a bit. “Are you not willing to do what we must?” I had never heard him sound so tentative.

I tightened my hold on him and pulled him closer. “Never think that. Not for a moment. I would walk through hell to be with you.”

“Probably an apt description of what our life will be,” he replied drily.

“I have gone into battle before.”

“Indeed, you have, my warrior.”

In only a few more minutes, we forced ourselves up from the bed and into our clothing. The early morning sun was beginning its journey across the room and I needed to return to the hotel. Having already been absent for dinner the previous evening, it seemed prudent to show up for breakfast and I needed to wash and change first.

Just before we stepped out of the cottage into a world that despised us for loving one another, Sherlock stopped and took my hand. “Come to London with me,” he said.

“You know of my commitment in Rome,” I reminded him gently.

He dismissed that. “Mycroft could arrange things.”

“That seems a dangerous favour to ask. What reason could you possibly give for wanting a former military surgeon to accompany you to London?”

Sherlock gave me a half-smile. “John, if you think I have any secrets from my brother you are deluded. In actual fact, if you think anyone in the Empire has any secrets from Mycroft Holmes you are deluded. And I do not exclude the Queen from that. If you agree, he will have a perfectly adequate replacement arranged before the end of the day.”

It was a tempting offer, but there was enough of the soldier left in me to give pause. “Let me consider it a bit,” I said.

He nodded and then chose not to play fairly [as if Sherlock Holmes ever would] by leaning down to kiss me, his tongue tracing a path across my lips, until they parted of their own accord and gave admittance. My own tongue did not object to the game and there was a brief duel. “Just something to keep in mind as you ‘consider’,” he whispered.

Then he gave my hand a final squeeze and dropped it as we went through the door into the morning and into the rest of our lives.

*  
And what a life it has been.

Those who have followed my scribblings regarding the adventure of a life spent with Sherlock Holmes, know of his work beyond the [brilliant] poetry. I have written of the many puzzles he has solved for both the official law enforcement agencies and a variety of troubled citizens. I have been his loyal chronicler and companion. ‘My stout-hearted Watson’ he has called me in public more than once.

Our lives have been in danger on many occasions [I have no need to repeat here the tribulations brought down upon us by the reappearance of that fiend Moriarty into our life] but we survived, because two hearts together are stronger than any opponent.

Through it all, by necessity, the truth of our hearts has remained a secret and will continue to do so for as long as we live.

Today, I sit here at my desk, listening to the faint snorting of the sleeping bulldog at my feet and watching through the open window as the Truth of My Heart tends to the beehives that produce the sweetest of honey. He moves a bit more slowly now, as do I, but our life here in this cottage in Sussex is busy and happy. As I watch, he moves away from the hives and pulls off the hood, revealing the mostly silver hair to the bright sun. He sees me watching and sends a smile that has not dimmed over the decades.

I give him a wave to indicate that it is time for tea.

Before going to the kitchen, however, I will carefully seal these pages in an envelope and prepare them for deposit into my dispatch box that is soon bound for Cox and Co. Sherlock knows full well what I am writing here and does not need to read the actual words.

If someone else is reading these pages in a future that we can only imagine, I hope that you will not judge us over harshly. We loved and we loved and, if I have my way, that love will not die even when we do, but will somehow go on forever.

Sherlock would say that I am fanciful.

I will close this account with the words of a very fanciful man who is not me.

_See that star?_  
_It is the light cast by my love,_  
_And it is a light that will not fade_  
_While the universe exists,_  
_And possibly even beyond that._  
_That star is my love._

Now I will go make the tea.

JHW

-fini-


End file.
